


moderation

by Rhovanel



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Enemies to Lovers, Fade Shenanigans, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 13:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhovanel/pseuds/Rhovanel
Summary: Dorian’s magic holds a strange allure for the spirits of the Fade.Perhaps notjustthe spirits.





	moderation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



Dorian wakes in the Fade.

Well, he presumes it’s the Fade. It’s certainly not the Emprise du Lion - or at least, not the one in which he’d fallen asleep. He recognises the stone circle where they’d camped for the night, but it is no longer a ruin: the pillars are sturdy and straight, and it does not seem quite as cold. It had been such a freezing night that he’d been forced to share a tent with Solas, of all people.

 _Solas_ , he thinks, turning around. Sure enough, he spots a familiar stern profile standing in front of a pillar, looking at the glyphs traced into it.

Dorian saunters over. “Is this my dream or yours?” he says.

Solas jumps. Dorian has a strange, fleeting sensation of eyes and teeth and fur, but blinking, he only sees Solas in front of him, his face a mix of incredulous surprise and anger.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“You tell me. This must be your dream. Mine would hardly be so…dull.”

“Dull?”

“Well, this is the Fade, is it not? A world of possibility and potential, and you’re just looking at a rock.”

Solas sighs. “You have no respect for history,” he says. “I am surprised to see you here. I had not thought you had the talent, let alone the control.”

“You know, I used to think that the magisters of Tevinter were the masters of the backhanded compliment, but you could really teach them a thing or two.”

“It might be the physical proximity,” Solas continues, ignoring Dorian’s comment.

“Is that why you always sleep alone?” Dorian asks. “And here I thought you were just a delicate snowflake preserving your modesty.”

Solas mutters what sounds like a curse, and turns back to look at the pillar. “Do not touch anything, do not talk to anything, do not wander off, and do not, under any circumstances, use any magic. The Fade is a dangerous place.”

“But I do love to live dangerously,” Dorian says. He perches on a rock, looking off into the distance. “Are those demons?”

“Spirits,” Solas corrects sharply. “They sensed my presence when I arrived in the Fade. I am planning to speak to them shortly.” He glances over at Dorian. “Or at least, I was.”

Dorian ignores the bait. “You know, we’re not so different, you and I,” he says thoughtfully.

“To what could you possibly be referring to?”

“Our magic.” He waves a hand around him. “We are both drawn to death.”

Solas turns to look at Dorian with a raised eyebrow. “Your necromancy is hardly equivalent to my dreaming.”

“I beg to differ,” Dorian says. “Don’t you spend every night walking through the past, dredging up the dead and gone?”

“Yes, I walk _through_ it,” Solas replies through gritted teeth. “You bind the dead to your will.”

“But we both gain power from re-animating the past,” he says. “From the very edge of the Veil.” He snaps fingers with a spark of electricity.

Instantly the group of spirits converge on the small stone circle.

“See what you have done?” Solas sighs. “Did you not listen to anything I said?”

Dorian laughs delightedly as the spirits move around him. “Now this is far more interesting! Are they attracted to the magic?”

“They are drawn to you. They think you can give them life.” He shakes his head. “They do not realise it is slavery.”

At Solas’s words, the tension in the air grows, and the presence of the spirits suddenly feels more malevolent.

“You’ve made them angry,” Dorian says, but he can’t help but feel a shiver of unease run down his back. His magic flares defensively.

“Dorian, calm yourself,” Solas says. “If they see you as a threat, they will attack.”

“Oh, so _I’m_ the threat?” Dorian says, but his indignation only fuels his spellcraft further.

Just as the spirits begin to bear down on him, he feels a cool hand grasp his wrist. The malevolence in the air turns suddenly to a deep, primal fear. It feels like the instinctive response of prey faced with a predator.

He wakes with a gasp. Propping himself up on one elbow, he turns to look at Solas sitting beside him in the tent, a furious expression on his face.

“Well, that was your fault,” Dorian says. “We were getting along just fine before you had to sour the mood.”

“And what would your solution have been? To bind them all into servitude?”

“What was your solution?” Dorian retorts. “What _was_ that?”

“I simply woke you before you could do any harm.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Dorian says. “That was something else.”

Solas ignores him. “You should not have been there at all,” he says. “Your presence disturbed the spirits.”

Dorian scoffs. “And your presence brought them there in the first place. Haven’t you ever thought that by constantly walking through the Fade, you’re just binding the memories to the place? That you are as much the enslaver as you regard me?”

Solas stares at him, shock and anger on his face. He stands up and walks out of the tent.

“I told you we weren’t so different!” Dorian yells at his retreating back, then lies back down with a sigh.

 *********  

The following evening is even colder, but Dorian suspects it’s still warmer than the icy atmosphere that awaits him inside the tent. Solas has been snippier than usual, and the two of them had spent the day trading barbs until even the Inquisitor had lost patience. With a sigh, he pushes open the tent flap.

Solas is already wrapped in his bedroll. “Secure the flap,” he says.

“I am hardly an idiot,” Dorian says, tying it into place.

“That has yet to be proven.”

Dorian sighs. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said before,” he says. “I know you’re…touchy about this issue.”

“Forgive me for being upset about the oppressive experience of my people,” Solas says, but he turns to look at Dorian. “I do, however, appreciate the apology.”

“So are we going to dream together again tonight?” Dorian asks, climbing into his own freezing bedroll.

“No,” Solas says. “Now that I am familiar with the experience, I should be able to block your presence from my dreaming mind.”

Dorian shrugs. “Well, maybe I’ll see you in your dreams, sweetheart,” he says with a grin. Solas swears at him and extinguishes the lamp between them. Dorian buries himself in his blankets until his shivering subsides enough to allow him to sleep.

He wakes, once more, in the stone circle in the Fade. But this time the circle is filled with spirit forms, moving in elegant circles, dancing in time to music he cannot hear.

Solas is standing off to one side, a wistful expression on his face.

“Well, now isn’t this a surprise,” Dorian says, sauntering over.

Solas turns to stare at him, his mouth falling open with surprise. “Dorian…how are you doing this?”

“You are the Fade expert, you tell me.”

Solas looks at him thoughtfully. “You seem to be able to penetrate my defences,” he says. “This is…unexpected.”

Dorian laughs. “I’ve heard that one before,” he with a grin, “although usually in more intimate circumstances."

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” Solas mutters.

Dorian turns to survey the gathering. “So this is what you do when you think no one can see you? Party all night in the Fade?”

“No,” Solas replies.

“No, I don’t think so,” Dorian shakes his head. “I think you skulk on the edges watching with that little hangdog expression of yours.”

“I most certainly do not,” Solas says, but his voice betrays him.

Dorian laughs again. “Well, this is far more interesting than last night, at least.” He starts to walk towards the circle, but Solas reaches out and grabs his arm.

“No,” he says. “Do you remember what I told you?”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian sighs. “Do nothing, say nothing, touch nothing, generally experience nothing.”

“Your necromancy is too forceful in the Fade,” Solas continues.

“I have also heard that one before,” he says bitterly.

Solas raises an eyebrow at him.

“It is safer to fit in,” Dorian continues, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice. “To make your desires and dreams smaller and smaller until they run no risk of drawing attention to themselves.” He sighs. “I had thought it would be different here, but I suppose some things do not change.”

Solas says nothing, and when Dorian turns back to look at him, he is frowning at him. He lets go of his arm, taking a step back.

“Oh, so I have your permission now, do I?” Dorian asks.

“You should not need it,” Solas says quietly. “I apologise. I have been unfair.” He nods at the circle. “Go, if you wish.”

Dorian feels somewhat bewildered, but he turns and walks into the group of spirits at a loss for what else to do. Like the previous evening, the spirts gather around him. They don’t feel malevolent tonight: if anything, there’s an excitement in the air.

After a few moments, they return to their dance. Now that Dorian is closer, it seems familiar, strangely similar to a Tevinter dance he had learnt as a younger man.

“I know this one!” he says delightedly, and joins in. The dance requires complicated footwork and little physical contact, but he can feel the spirits sliding past him as he twists and turns.

He glances back over his shoulder, and sees Solas watching him, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Dancing with demons!” he calls. “How appropriate for the court’s wicked necromancer!”

“Spirits,” Solas corrects, but there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “They are curiosity spirits. They seem to have taken to you.”

“I told you I was not the problem!” he says. But when he turns back, the spirit in front of him starts changing, growing taller and longer.

“Spoke too soon,” he mutters, taking a hesitant step back.

“Honestly,” Solas snaps, striding over to stand beside Dorian. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Dorian says defensively.

Solas raises his hand towards the demon. “That is an envy demon,” he says. “Curiosity has clearly become too taken with the promise of your necromancy.”

“Well, it is not like I can just turn it off,” Dorian says, taking another step backwards.

Solas does not seem at all concerned with the demon growing in size before him. “No, but you can moderate it.” He looks back over his shoulder. “I can teach you, if you wish.”

“No, I think we should stand here and keep talking while that demon prepares to eat us!”

Solas looks back at the demon, shakes his head sadly, and then reaches out to take Dorian’s arm.

Just as his fingers are closing around his wrist, Dorian again has a strange sensation of immense, unfathomable power.

He wakes with a lurch.

“What…” He turns to look at Solas, who looks as unruffled as always. “Was that you or the demon?”

“The Fade distorts sensation,” Solas replies.

“You did not answer my question.”

“And you did not answer mine.” At Dorian’s baffled expression, he sighs impatiently. “Shall I teach you to moderate your magical force?”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Somehow I suspect I shall be subjected to a lesson regardless, but fine, why not.”

“Go back to sleep,” Solas says, lying back down and tucking his blankets around him. “Tomorrow we begin.”

“It’s too cold to sleep,” Dorian mutters under his breath, but nothing gets past the ears of an elf.

“Honestly, Dorian,” Solas says, shifting his bedroll closer and throwing his own blanket on top of Dorian’s. “Do you ever stop complaining?”

“Do you ever stop moralising?”

“Just go to sleep,” he says again.

As he slips into sleep once more, Dorian finds himself imagining a giant animal between him and the elements, lulling him to sleep with its radiated heat and quiet, steady breathing.

 *********  

“May I offer a suggestion?”

They’re trudging through yet another snowdrift on yet another freezing day. Dorian has spent the day casting various spells while Solas criticises them. He’s tired and frustrated and frozen to the bone, and wants nothing more than a hot bath and a break from Solas’s incessant disapproval.

He suspects he will get neither.

“Yes?” he sighs.

“I had thought the problem was the superficial allure of your magic, but I was mistaken: it is the way you release it. You invest your energy in the initial display, but at the height of the cast, you pull back.” He looks at him quizzically. “Is this something you were taught?”

“Perhaps it is just what happens when you are constantly being criticised for your ‘superficial allure,’” Dorian snaps.

Solas gestures at the rocky formation to their right. “Try again.”

“Sanctimonious ass,” Dorian mutters, but he casts another lightning bolt. It ricochets off the rock face into a tree, sending a rain of snow down onto Solas.

“ _Fenedhis lasa_! I told you to modulate your energy evenly, not to concentrate it in the final moment.”

“Ah, but building to an explosive climax is _far_ more fun.”

Solas sighs. “That is enough for today, I think.”

“Fantastic,” he mutters. “I will look forward to failing in more ways tomorrow.”

“Dorian, you are stronger than you think,” Solas says. “Your experiences in the Fade have proven that. Do not doubt yourself so.”

Dorian blinks at the rare compliment. Solas is a master of misdirection and enigma, but he means everything he says. He feels a tiny flicker of warmth in his chest, persistent despite his chilled bones.

“You’ve got snow on your head,” he says, reaching out to brush it off, and laughing at Solas’s indignant expression.

 *********  

Dorian does not linger by the campfire that evening, but stands as soon as they’ve finished their meal.

“I think I shall retire,” he says, casting Solas a pointed look before disappearing into the tent. He hears Solas say something to the Inquisitor before he follows him inside.

“Well, hurry up,” Dorian says, as he strips off his outer layers. “I can’t very well follow you into the Fade until you’re asleep.”

“You are unbearably impatient,” Solas sighs, but Dorian thinks he can discern a certain eager anticipation in his movements.

After Dorian extinguishes the lamp, he feels him shift closer, moving his blanket so it covers them both.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“You are cold,” Solas says. “You spent too much of the day in the snow.”

“And whose fault would that be?”

“You will sleep faster this way.”

“Oh, now who’s impatient?” Dorian says, but he slips into sleep easily enough.

When he returns to consciousness, he finds himself looking into Solas’s face.

“Good evening,” he says.

“Hello,” Dorian replies, amused by the formality.

They’re sitting together in the stone circle, and Dorian can see the spirits hovering at the edges.

“I have asked them to remain outside the circle,” Solas says, following his gaze. “I do not trust them with you.”

“So you’ve effectively trapped us in here,” Dorian says.

“I…wished to speak with you,” Solas says. “I have been contemplating what you said. Do you truly think our magic is equivalent?”

Dorian shrugs. “Like I said, we both re-animate the past.”

“We do not,” Solas replies. “You bind the energy of the past to the present, forcing it to work in ways it was never meant to. I restore it to what it was always supposed to be.”

“What was supposed to be? What good is that if it can’t save my life in battle?”

“You should have more respect for the history you exploit.”

“No,” Dorian says. “Perhaps it is you who should have more respect for the present. What good is the past if it cannot save the lives of those who live now?”

Solas stares at him. “The past does not have to be comprehensible to have value.”

“The past is gone,” Dorian says. “I will not waste the time dwelling on it when I could be experiencing the present.”

“You would blind yourself to the lessons of the past for a few moments of pleasure?”

“No,” Dorian says again. “I would simply live.”

They stare at one another for a long moment. “But is that enough?” Solas asks eventually.

Dorian opens his mouth to reply, but is distracted by a disturbance on the edge of his vision. One of the spirits is shifting form, curling in on itself before unfurling into something long and graceful.

 _That’s a desire demon_ , he thinks, but he cannot stop the surge of _want_ that rises up within him. He wants to walk towards it, to reach out and touch it, to feel something substantial in this strange and wispy place.

Somehow he finds himself on his feet. He can hear Solas calling his name, but he cannot seem to take his eyes away from the demon in front of him.

Just as he is reaching out to take its hand, Solas steps quickly in between him and the demon, takes his face in his hands, and kisses him.

Dorian can feel his brain short-circuiting, but he responds instinctively, wrapping his arms around Solas’s waist. Solas shifts his hands to stroke through his hair, tilting his head and taking the opportunity to slide his tongue into his mouth. Dorian meets it with his own, and he can’t suppress a moan as the kiss turns into something deep and hot. Solas pushes him back against a nearby pillar, and he swears he hears him growl in the back of his throat as their hips collide.

He’s just sliding his hand slowly down Solas’s back towards the band of his leggings when he wakes with a start. He turns to see Solas, looking as flustered as he feels.

“What in the world was that?” he asks.

“That was another case of your impetuousness and recklessness,” Solas replies. “You cannot seem to go a second without drawing a demon to yourself.”

“No, not that,” Dorian says impatiently. “The other thing.”

Solas says nothing.

“You _kissed_ me,” Dorian says. He can feel a grin hovering at the edge of his lips.

“You needed to be distracted,” Solas replies. “It seemed to be the most appropriate action to direct your attention away from the demon.” His voice is as even as always, but Dorian can see that the tips of his ears are very pink.

“Most appropriate?” Dorian says. “You could have slapped me, or done any number of things, but you chose to use your tongue.”

Solas shifts uncomfortably. “Did it not have the desired effect?”

“Oh, it had an effect, alright,” Dorian mutters.

“I…I apologise,” Solas says. “It will not happen again.” He exits the tent quickly, leaving Dorian flustered and frustrated.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” he sighs.

*********

Solas avoids him all day. Dorian isn’t sure whether the silence is better or worse than the constant bitching. Worse, probably, because it gives him the freedom to replay the kiss over and over in his mind. He doesn’t know if Solas meant anything by it, or if he was influenced by the desire demon, or if he honestly just thought it was the best way to wake him up.

He does know that it is taking all of his self-control not to pin him down in a snowdrift and lick his way into his mouth.

His main consolation is that he knows that Solas has hardly taken his eyes off him all day - only, in fact, when Dorian catches him staring.

That afternoon the party returns to the large Inquisition camp just outside of Sahrnia. The Inquisitor is obviously relieved to be out of the harshest of the elements.

“You two won’t have to share a tent tonight!”

The silence that follows is thick with tension, and Lavellan looks between them with a baffled expression.

“Why do you look like I just killed your mabari?”

“No reason,” Dorian says.

“We do not,” Solas snaps.

Lavellan’s eyebrows shoot up. “If you say so.”

“I shall take my leave,” Solas says, inclining his head. “Inquisitor.”

Dorian watches him walk away, his fists clenching with frustration.

“Dorian,” Lavellan begins with a bemused grin.

“Do _not_ start,” he groans, and Lavellan laughs.

“Varric!” he hears Lavellan call as he puts his head in his hands. “You owe me five sovereigns!”

*********

He cannot find Solas that evening. He presumes he’s wandered off to sleep alone. It would not be a noteworthy occurrence, except for the events of the previous night.

“Coward,” he mutters to himself, as he tosses and turns in his own bedroll, eventually falling into a fitful sleep.

To his surprise, he wakes in the Fade, once more in the stone circle.

“Well done,” Solas says, stepping out from behind a pillar.

Dorian raises an eyebrow at him. “Was this a _test_?”

“Of a sort,” he replies. “I was interested to see if you could return here in a dream of your own making.”

“This is my dream?” Dorian glances around. “Why aren’t we somewhere more interesting?”

“Your dreaming mind uses familiar spaces for stability.”

“Hmmm,” Dorian says, running a finger along the edge of a pillar. “And why are you here?”

“Your presence is very strong,” Solas says. “This is why the spirits cannot resist you.”

“Not just the spirits, I think,” he says, and he sees Solas’s ears flush.

He takes a step towards him. “Well, I passed the test, did I not?” He grins at him. “Surely that deserves a reward.”

Solas says nothing, just raises his chin slightly as he watches him approach.

“You know, I have been thinking,” Dorian continues. “Yesterday you asked me about pleasure, and whether it was enough to simply live in the present.”

He comes to a stop in front of Solas, their faces inches apart.

He leans in to whisper in his ear. “Shall we find out?”

They both move at the same time, lips meeting with near-desperation. This time, however, Dorian is ready for it, and he opens his mouth eagerly against the press of Solas’s tongue. Solas tugs at his hair, pulling him closer, and he hears him gasp softly as he slides his hands under his shirt.

“I thought you told me not to touch anything,” he says with a grin.

“I believe we have established that I was mistaken.” Solas runs his hands down his chest as he kisses him again. It is agonisingly slow, and he bites at Dorian’s lip when he tries to hasten the pace.

“You have no patience,” he murmurs, but he relents at the frustrated expression on Dorian’s face, and drops his hand to slide across the front of his breeches. Dorian groans, bucking towards him. He reaches out and grabs his hips, pulling him close enough so that he can feel his arousal pressing against his own.

“Well, the world is ending, is it not?” he says.

Solas freezes, and pulls back slightly to look him in the eyes. “Yes,” he says, “yes, it is.” He kisses him fiercely, and Dorian can feel his hands shaking where they lie against his skin.

He recalls an echo of something Solas had said to him on their first night in the Fade, and he wonders if he had perhaps not been talking of the spirits at all.

_He thinks you can give him life._

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a treat (which clearly spiralled out of control) for heeroluva for the 2019 Chocolate Box Exchange. I combined a few prompts here, but the main inspiration was a suggestion for a story about Dorian’s necromancy - I was really taken with the idea of exploring the parallels between Dorian and Solas's relationships to the dead and gone. I love this pairing with all my heart and this was such a delight to write. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> The title is taken from the Florence + the Machine song of the same name.


End file.
